Ode to a former shuttle driver

The first thing I noticed about Scotty wasn't his bushy gray-white eyebrows or thick tube socks that stuck out of his big white sneakers.

It was the sign he taped above the dashboard of his shuttle bus. Scrawled in thick, black ink on a plain piece of white paper was a message that read:


Hi My Name is
"SCOTTY"


The i’s were dotted with big circles. It looked like a third grader's handwriting. I wasn't sure if the quotation marks indicated a nickname, or if it wasn't really his name at all.

He never actually introduced himself by name, but he did greet me and the various, five to ten other commuters that rode on his bus from the Radnor train station to the Radnor Corporate Center each weekday with a jolly "Good morning!" He was a big, elderly man with thinning hair that peeked from underneath a baseball cap. I imagined he was recently retired and worked part-time.

On the train, people go out of their way to avoid contact of any kind with each other. But rarely could anyone help but break out of the common stranger shell when climbing aboard Scotty’s bus.

Inspired by his friendliness, I often thought about calling him Scotty but I was hesitant to assume it was his name. It wasn’t until the long, lanky twenty-something who works at the Corporate Center’s deli said, “See ya, Scotty,” for the first time before hopping off the bus that I was confident enough to do the same.

And it wasn’t long after I began greeting him by name that he donned me with the nickname “Happy.”

It began like this: “It’s great to see you, you’re always smiling, always happy,” he said as I found my seat.

I laughed, a little surprised. “I try,” I said unsurely.

I thought maybe he'd mistaken the squinty face I make when I forget my sunglasses for a wholehearted, I-love-my-life kind of smile. The truth is, commuting an hour and a half to work every weekday doesn’t leave me feeling particularly jubilant.

After that day, whenever I boarded the bus he always said, “Hi, Happy, good to see you,” or “Hey, Hap, how are ya?”

Sometimes he’d yell, “YAHOO!” as I walked down from the train platform towards the curb where he always waited.

Whether or not I was really smiling before, I couldn’t help but smile after our interactions, and sometimes it lasted into the afternoon. Whether or not I was really all that happy in the morning, I was now—at least a little bit more.

One day as we approached my stop he asked me my real name.

“Caitlin,” I said as I stepped down the stairs towards building number three.

“Caitlin, huh? That’s an unusual one.”

I always thought my name was pretty common, but I just laughed and waved goodbye for the day.

A few days later, it was just me and two others on the bus. I got on first. After our usual exchange, I found my seat. Then I glanced up and saw him looking at me from the big rearview mirror that hung right under his sign.

“Caitlin, do you have a man at home that takes good care of you?”

I paused, then told him that yes, I certainly do.

“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a chuckle.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I live with a woman,” he said, “A widow. Her name is Bridget. We’ve lived together for ten years.”

“Wow, that’s a long time.”

“We like to go to car shows together on the weekends,” he said as he made his way out of the parking lot. He told me he’d bring in a picture of the vintage car he fixed up to show me.

I pictured Scotty coming home to a little red brick house in his big white sneakers and khaki shorts, lunchbox in hand—excited to see Bridget. Every now and then, I asked him how she was doing.

Then one gloomy, rainy morning I got off the train to find two shuttle buses in line instead of one. I approached the first one that looked like Scotty’s, but he wasn’t inside. A slight, middle-aged man was in his place.

“Going to the Corporate Center?” he said dully. “Which building?”

Scotty knew everyone, if not by name, by which building they worked in. I figured the change was temporary. Maybe Scotty was ill, or maybe they just altered the shuttle schedule due to the weather. He had to be coming back, I thought, because his sign still hung above the dashboard.

The dull man took his place for a few weeks or so. He rarely responded to pleasantries and made rough, abrupt stops. All the commuters continued the friendly greetings and goodbyes they’d become accustomed to, thanking him for each short ride. He remained oblivious and completely apathetic.

His somberly silent spirit was as contagious as Scotty’s glee, and the passengers’ pleasantries eventually tapered off. The shuttle felt more like the train.

Eventually, Scotty’s sign was taken down. A small scrap of one of the corners of the white paper remained, barely noticeable. It may have been the warmer weather, but fewer and fewer people showed up on the shuttle each morning.

A fellow rider and coworker of mine asked the new guy what happened to Scotty.

“He’s on vacation and stuff,” he said in his monotone voice.

For several days after that, as the train approached the Radnor station, I’d wonder if this day would be the day Scotty came back. I imaged how excited everyone would be.

Finally, another man—older, and slightly more personable—showed up in the driver’s seat one morning. He was friendly, and announced to everyone that his name was Gene and that he’d been on a leave from his position but that now he was back for good.

That was when I officially gave up hope for Scotty’s return. I was glad to have a nicer driver, but I still think often of Scotty and Bridget and wonder what they’re doing now. I think of how just a few of his words made me believe a lot more in my ability to make myself happy.

Today, before the bus began bounding across Matsonford Road, Gene told everyone to please read the sign he’d recently posted.

In bold typeface it read:


FOR YOUR SAFETY
Please remain seated until the Bus has come to a COMPLETE stop.


Below the words was a clip art image of happy commuters reading the paper and drinking coffee, all seated as requested.

I liked Scotty’s sign better.